


Broken Cash (Hope on the Ceiling)

by br0ken_hands



Series: Sins, Smugglers, and Syndicates (A Tommy Gun Tragedy) [1]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Noir, Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-14 22:48:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15399243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/br0ken_hands/pseuds/br0ken_hands
Summary: Business is business, and if someone is willing to give information, Yasha is willing to let them negotiate what they want, and if it's from a lover? Well, Yasha separates her papers from her partners, but she's not one to turn down an opportunity for mutual gain.





	Broken Cash (Hope on the Ceiling)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Ink_Knight for throwing gasoline onto a four-alarm fire in an oil refinery late at night on discord and letting me use her ideas and build off of them for this.
> 
> NOW WITH ARTWORK??!? Thanks to odinsreach on tumblr for bringing this story to life  
> http://odinsreach.tumblr.com/post/179027757033/had-to-draw-some-art-to-go-with-this-fucking

INT. ATLANTIC CITY OFFICE - NIGHT

The clock on the wall says it's an hour past midnight and everyone who knows better than to play at night in Atlantic City is asleep. Somewhere in the streets below, there's the gentle croon of a saxophone, singing its sweet tunes to the clear moon above. The building is quiet, all the lights turned off, empty but for two lonely souls in the dark of the New Jersey night.

A tommy gun and six chamber revolver sitting on the table in front of them, casting shadows against the glass of whiskey, the only light from the street lamp a floor down, casting harsh beams across their moving bodies, filtered by the thick wooden blinds across the windows, Yasha slouches in her armchair, shirt open, cigarette held loosely in her lips, face concealed by shadows. Smoke curls out of the corner of her lips as she exhales gently, nothing more than an errant shadow to the passing eye on the street below.

In her fingers spins a deadly looking knife in one hand, the silver of its blade reflecting dull oranges from the flickering streetlamp, movement unperturbed by the mewling girl in her lap. Smoke swirls slowly, visible only in the darkness, rising up to curl up towards the ceiling. Yasha's other hand rests gently against the girl's ass, thumb stroking ever so gently in rhythmic patterns as she continues to grind in Yasha's lap. It's not a terribly uncommon sight in the shadows of the secluded office off Pacific Avenue. Business is business, and if someone is willing to give information, Yasha is willing to let them negotiate what they want, and if it's from a lover? Well, Yasha separates her papers from her partners, but she's not one to turn down an opportunity for mutual gain.

The horizontal lines of brightness filtering past the blinds fall on Beau's bare form, shaking, wanting. Sharp collarbones, lean muscles, the paned ridges of her back. Yasha sits and admires. She knows how to appreciate beautiful artwork when she sees it. Where Yasha is composed, a picture of the iron fist that rules Atlantic City's underbelly save the shirt that splays open, revealing smooth alabaster skin, Beau is trembling, shaking, a fraction of the person she poses to be as a crime lord's daughter.

A fan whirls from the ceiling, the only sound in the room other than the quiet panting and whining escaping Beau's chapped lips. Downstairs, soft jazz continues to echo from what is almost certainly a speakeasy, the quiet murmur of conversation just a whisper in Yasha's ear.

Yasha leans forward, just an inch, and presses a kiss to the hollow of Beau's throat. No sounds escape her lips, but Beau feels it all the same. Beau shudders under the attention, whines when Yasha pulls away. Yasha smiles. Her fingers trail up Beau's back, tangling them in loose hair, tilting blue eyes to meet her own.

"The shipment your father ordered. When is it coming?"

Beau shakes in Yasha's grasp, feeling a calloused thumb brush against the side of her face. A thumb that has held a gun that has killed many a friend of her father's. The thought of it alone makes her face heat up. Dropping her face to Yasha's shoulder, she gasps against smooth skin: "Friday, 6pm, Steel Pier."  
Yasha smiles. Slowly, she drags her fingers down from Beau's face to the line of Beau's hip and strokes gently, smiling as Beau's hips snap at the contact.

"Good girl."

Yasha's fingers continue to dance further inwards, dipping south until they find wet heat. Brushing past dewy curls, Yasha gently pushed two fingers in to the knuckles, watching with rapt attention as Beau's eyes fly open at the stretch. After giving Beau but a moment to adjust, Yasha begins to pump her fingers, in, out, in, out, at an agonizing pace. Beau moans at the motion, and Yasha presses a thumb to Beau's clit.

"So wet for me..." Yasha muses and receives a whine in return.

Beau's breaths are coming fast and hard now, unbearably worked up from grinding into Yasha's lap while giving her report. She's so close, so damn close, if she could just- Beau's teeth sink into Yasha's bare shoulder, stifling her cries as she rolls her hips harder onto Yasha's fingers, wanting more, faster, harder.

Yasha tsks and withdraws her fingers, smirking as Beau whines at the loss. "My pace or not at all."

Beau nods frantically, grinding hard into Yasha's lap, looking for something, anything. When Yasha doesn't relent, she gently detaches from Yasha's shoulder, stilling herself, heart still pounding, hyperaware of the wetness gathered between her thighs.

The filtered light catches Yasha's gentle smirk from the shadows, and she returns her fingers back to Beau, gently easing her fingers back in and gently fucking into her.

"Good girl."

Beau knows it's coming, can feel the gentle prodding of Yasha's fingers against her, but she's still caught off guard, the air still escapes from her lungs as Yasha sinks in, inch by agonizing inch, until she's fully buried back in Beau again.

Yasha's arm begins to pick up pace again, her other hand abandoning the knife to cup Beau's face, tilting it up to meet Yasha's eyes. She strokes a broad, scarred thumb over Beau's unmarked face, and smiles, eyes shining brightly in the darkness.

"So pretty."

Beau clenches down hard on Yasha's fingers, relishing every thrust for as long as she possibly can, panting with every thrust that fills her so deeply she thinks she might combust from the inside.  
Yasha smiles at the sensation, fucking into Beau a little harder. For as much as she loves stringing Beau out until she's begging, until she has tears rolling down her cheeks, breathless and lips robbed of words, this is killing her a little bit too, and she's eager to watch and feel Beau break with her fingers inside of her.

Yasha's thumb presses with a little more force against Beau's clit, circling the bud with vigour. Beau's hips jerk, driving Yasha's fingers further into her.

"More." She pants, mouth open, eyes locked onto mismatched ones staring right back. They betray no emotion, hard and distant, but Beau couldn't care less. "Please."

Yasha's free hand drifts to hold Beau by the bottom of the jaw and draws her in, holding her fractions of inches from her lips.

"Good girl."

Yasha closes the distance, kissing Beau hard, feeling teeth clack against teeth. Her fingers curl just so and Beau stiffens in her lap, silent, shaking, and beautiful in release.

They're frozen in tableau for mere seconds before a breathy moan escapes Beau's lips and her shoulders drop, the tension draining out of them. She pulls away from the kiss ever so slightly, eyes still screwed shut, and slumps against Yasha's shoulder.

Yasha draws out her fingers, gently, huffing a little laugh when Beau's fingers jerk at the movement, unbearably oversensitive. She brings her fingers to her lips, sucking them clean of Beau's wetness.

Beau's eyes flutter open and she tilts her head, watching Yasha's throat bob as she cleans each finger.

Yasha rests her cleaned hand on Beau's ass gently, rubbing a thumb over the sweat-glistened skin.

Beau sits up, shaky and exhausted, wrapping her arms around Yasha's neck. "What can I do for you?"

Yasha shakes her head. "Not tonight. You've done enough."

Beau's face immediately creases into a frown.

"Go home, Beau. I have work to do and you have places to be that won't connect me to yourself. I'll call for you when I need you next." Yasha nods to the pile of clothes gathered by the door and Beau sighs, pressing one last kiss to Yasha's lips.

Standing up on shaky legs, she makes her way to her discarded clothes, strewn across the room in haste when she first entered. Tugging the shawl across her shoulder, she puts a hand on the doorknob, then turns back to Yasha.

"Will I see you soon?"

"In my dreams."

Beau smiles, blushing, and leaves.

When the door clicks shut, Yasha counts to ten in her head, slow and steady, then her hands fly to her belt, loosening it and slipping a hand beneath her pants. Gods, what she would do to have Beau's fingers in her instead, to say "fuck papers and partners", but this is a weakness she's not ready to share with Beau. Not yet.

Yasha's eyes flutter shut and it's like she's watching a film projected against the backs of her eyelids. Beau, in all of her gloriously naked beauty, kneeling on the floor before her, the blues of her eyes lit by the bars of light that filter through the window. Gentle hands, soft from never seeing a day of hard work in her life, pulling Yasha's belt off with all the grace in the world, hooking fingers under the waist of Yasha's slacks and pulling down, pushing scarred thighs apart, groaning at the sight of soaked folds before her, drenched from fucking Beau into an orgasm earlier.

Yasha pushes a finger inside of her, barely thrusting before adding a second. She imagines Beau, skin with a sheen of sweat, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to Yasha's thigh, higher, higher, to her folds, her clit, narrow fingers finding purchase against the hard muscle of Yasha's thighs, licking into her in earnest.

She thinks of how she'd tangle her fingers in Beau's hair, the way she'd tug gently, the way she'd... fuck, she'd beg, Beau's name a hymn on her lips. Yasha adds a third finger and fucks into herself at a breakneck pace. She thinks of how broken her voice would be, thinks of how Beau would pull away and smirk at how pliant Yasha is beneath her tongue, how she could bring down Atlantic City's greatest mob boss to her knees with nothing but her fingers and sweet words. She thinks of how Beau would kiss her hips and whisper "come for me, Yasha."

Yasha's hips jerk out of their own accord and she comes, Beau's name a faint whisper that barely makes it past her throat.

The moment she stills, breath back in her lungs, she eases her fingers out, cleans them against a handkerchief in her pocket, tugs her pants up, wincing at the pressure against her groin, and does up her belt.

This is not anything anyone can know of. Not for her sake. Not for Beau's sake. Yasha reaches for the whiskey, draining the glass. Setting it down, she groans and shifts herself back upright in the chair, leaning further into the light. The New Jersey night continues to pass below her, shadows of people flitting under incandescent lights, dancing to the tune of the saxophone's sonnet. Despite the orgasm, Yasha's heart finds no release.

**Author's Note:**

> For clarification, because this is more or less transcribed over from Discord and I may be missing bits and pieces, Yasha and Beau's father are both mob bosses in Atlantic City during the 1930's Prohibition Era and run rival gangs. Beau, who is hopelessly in love with Yasha, comes in with information and Yasha rewards her, before shooing Beau off because she can't let anyone know that she's given Beau her heart and it's a weakness she can't afford to be exploited.
> 
> Fic title comes from Bo Baskoro's High (Keep Up)
> 
> Tumblr: frumpkinspocketdimension  
> Discord: SweetBabyRae#0967


End file.
